To Carry the Fire
by wryter501
Summary: Battle, loss, betrayal, magic... Arthur has experienced all of them. Facing Morgana and the Saxons in Camlann at the head of his knights, he remembers the fire of that pain again... while Merlin feels a different fire entirely. Begins in canon, a Camlann alternative. No slash, reveal!fic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: A Camlann alternative, in three parts. Will include Merlin pov in the next two parts (which are longer, too).**

 **To Carry the Fire**

 _We can never go home… We no longer have one_

 _I'll help you carry the load… I'll carry you in my arms_

 _The kiss of the snow… The crescent moon above us_

 _Our blood is cold… And we're alone_

 _But I'm alone with you_

…

 _Help me to carry the fire_

 _We will keep it alight together_

 _Help me to carry the fire_

 _It will light our way forever_

…

 _If I say shut your eyes… If I say look away_

 _Bury your face in my shoulder… Think of a birthday_

 _The things you put in your head… They will stay here forever_

 _Our blood is cold… And we're alone_

 _But I'm alone with you_

…

 _If I say shut your eyes_

 _If I say shut your eyes_

 _Bury me in surprise_

 _If I say shut your eyes_

~ the Editors

* * *

 _(Arthur)_

I have felt the fire.

I have borne the physical agony of wounds, run in feverish dream-circles alone in my mind wondering if my race was over already.

So many times. Yet here I stand, without so much as a scar, to face the greatest battlefield yet.

Camlann.

An enemy army assembled and on the move – a threat I have faced only once before, and these will never take an apology or give a champion. Were I even inclined to deal so. An enemy army and impossible magic. Like any monster or sorcerer, impossible to fight and conquer with only men and our edges of willing, noble blades. Yet… that threat has been faced before also. So many times. And here we stand.

I have felt the fire.

The eternal flame of betrayal, each a solitary, inextinguishable tongue that has threatened to sear my soul charry and unforgiving.

My father. His part in my mother's death to this day unknown to me, that truth surprisingly subjective and inexplicable. And also, the old sorcerer I trusted against reason to save his life. A killer, with whom I share responsibility? or not?

Morgana. The hardest. Because she had shared my life for so long, and I can not yet put my finger on the _when_ of her betrayal. Or a reason, why she hates with such undying passion, why she's twisted herself and everyone around her to such criminal evil, why she seeks my life with such relentless cruelty, regardless of the innocents between us. Magic alone, is not a sufficient excuse. Nor fear. Nor her own betrayal at our father's hands.

Others had magic, and rather fled than turn to murder. Others hid; it can be done, and has been done, and with my help at least once. Others have been betrayed – I think of druids, and one man I knew but briefly. A strange bearded hermit, a dragonlord, who saved the life of his enemy's son in a cave, then died protecting the son of an unknown father in the forest.

Guinevere. And Lancelot. The most painful, because the closest to my heart. The scar is there still, if such things were visible to the eye. And yet, forgiven both. One received back, so completely it still scares me sometimes; one released to travel past the veil. Twice.

My uncle. Bitter because it could have been prevented. Because innocents around me had suffered for a blindness to his character that was willful, at times, on my part.

I have felt the fire.

I have endured the pyre of loss, simpler than the rest because by nature so beyond control, and ultimately inevitable for everyone. Yet in some ways not entirely quenchable, because often it is linked to the feeling of betrayal. The guilt of failure, deserved or not.

All my family. Mother. Father. The sister I never had – the brother my wife shared with me. Knights – guards – citizens – children. The names I remember, and the names I never knew. I feel like they're standing with us here tonight, joining in the righteousness of our cause.

I have felt the fire.

The torches of the ranks of fighters behind me remind me of those times, too, over the years. The heat on my face as I stretch the light out to see my way in the dark. My way, which becomes the way of the kingdom I lead, the weight of their trust a burden I shoulder – willingly, most days.

I think of the moments of imminent death averted by the purity of incineration. Two memories, separate and yet linked by principle – in the closed chambers of the earth, facing a deadly creature of mud – in the chill open night-air hearing the shriek of spectral death approaching. Fire was our friend in both instances, our defender, our weapon and shield. Afanc and dorocha.

I think of the dragon's fire, too. A raging inferno… from which I woke without so much as a scorch mark.

We all face the fire, tonight. The hot agony of wounding, mortal and minor and everything in-between. We are all betrayed by the infidelity of the woman leading our enemy, we all face loss. That is inevitable. As is the magic she will surely attack us with.

And will the light of all we have fought for, so long, be extinguished?

All. All leads me to the thoughts of one man I believed I had dismissed from my mind in the preparation and imminence of battle. I labeled him unfit to join the ranks of the brave, heartlessly and deliberately. Because I wanted – needed so desperately it scared me – his contradiction, usually so ready when I was being an ass.

Because always. Always before, he has been _here_.

Every fight I faced, he'd stood with me, preparing my body as I prepared my heart and mind; I'd felt his heart fighting with me on occasion, though he was barred from the struggle by his status as servant and lack of physical ability. But every wound I'd borne, he'd seen. Some he'd tended personally. Other times, he tended my surroundings and my temper, through the impatient process of healing.

Every betrayal, he suffered as well. Some, he seemed to suffer more – and yet he was my example in forgiveness. His the words that I'd listened to – _You don't want to do this, put the sword down…_

 _\- You have a duty to your people, you can't give up on them now…_

 _\- Can you find it in your heart to forgive her? people won't find you weak or a fool, they'll find you merciful, understanding…_

 _\- They don't hate you, they just crave your power for themselves…_

Every pyre, his vigil kept mine company. Save for my mother, because he hadn't yet been born.

Every inferno of magic, he'd faced with me, even if it was trembling with nerves or watching from cover and concealment.

Every torch of enlightenment, _together_. Raised encouragingly, his hand on mine – or thrust spontaneously, but truly, from his to mine. I wonder briefly, if it has ever been the reverse. If I have ever given anything back to Merlin.

I feel the fire, close and hungry. And this time, it may take me.

Because for the first time since I have known him, since we have knocked and tumbled and smoothed our way into something strangely inseparable – he is not here.

It seems a betrayal, and feels a loss, and I cannot even think about wounds, or… magic.

"For the love of Camelot!" I cry to the knights at my back, and lead the charge.


	2. Chapter 2

**To Carry the Fire** \- Part 2

 _(Arthur)_

The battle is over, and I feel the fire again. It has not been extinguished by sweat, or tears. Or blood.

Or victory.

It is the burn of exhausted muscle. The helplessness of death all around – both what I have caused, and what I have not prevented.

It is the utter impossibility of a second dragon. And the man who commanded its retreat. And his lightning.

Magic.

Again I stand untouched, after facing outnumbered enemies and unanswered magic. But alone.

No – not alone. A rustle of clothing, a chink of armor or weapon, a footfall, alerts me and I spin, ready to fight. I am always ready to fight.

I am never ready for another betrayal.

Mordred. My young knight – rewarded, mentored, trusted, valued… lost. He'd saved my life more than once – and so I am slow to realize, to believe. To defend.

For a single burning, feverish, despairing beat of my heart, I hesitate.

And he strikes.

But in the moment that Mordred strikes, I am no longer alone. In the space of that single heartbeat, _he_ appears.

My friend, my fool, my shadow, my servant, my target, my counselor, my support.

Although, I can't remember if he's ever come between me and danger – has ever sheltered me from an enemy's blow – quite so literally.

I look at the back of his head – dusty shaggy black hair – and the knot of his scarf, faded along the folds and twists because it is always tied in exactly the same way. And I feel irritation.

This is not the contradiction to my asinine accusation of cowardice I had in mind.

 _You are in my way, Merlin. How can I fight with you standing there –_

So close I can feel his back against the metal armoring my heart. I can feel his gasp and shock and shudder along a line of broken chainmail along my right side.

And torn clothing. And pierced flesh and scored bone. I am not untouched, after all, but the burn is distant and not debilitating. Not yet, anyway… I try to look down at the wound, to gauge the extent of the betrayal, but Merlin is too close and I can see nothing but him.

I feel his right hand – trembling, with fear it may be – reach down to mine. Weak and ineffectual and _hesitating_ , damn it – and his fingers close about my hand, on the hilt of my sword, and suddenly we are both strong and resolute.

We forgive – and in the same moment, we judge. We lift the blade – and sheathe it in the traitor's heart.

For an instant, the fire goes out, as Mordred retreats an involuntary shuffled half-step, and we reclaim my sword.

But Merlin's body sways to follow the movement. The tip of Mordred's sword leaves my side and now I can see it, gleaming silver and smeared red.

 _My blood_? I think. Stupidly.

Stupidly, because now I see that the tip of the traitor's sword, red with my blood, emerges from the back of Merlin's jacket.

Red and silver, heroic and tragic, surrounded by prosaic brown. Which means…

But it can't mean…

I drop my sword, and Mordred goes down still holding his.

And almost, he takes Merlin with him. My servant is unarmored and untrained, younger and lighter than I. I am faster to prevent his fall than I was to prevent the blow, but Merlin is still strong on his feet; it was only the pull of the sword that unbalanced him.

He turns in my hands, his face pale and his eyes dark but all acceptance so serene and calm I decide I was wrong about what I'd seen in that horrible, impossible moment. I glance down and can see no evidence of my fear – no slice in the fabric behind the hanging corner of brown jacket, no spreading stain on the loose fit of the blue tunic.

His hand comes up to fit my ribs, gently and perfectly, and now my blood is on his fingers.

He says, "I'm sorry."

And I understand, that covers everything. All I know – all I think I know, and misunderstand – all I don't.

Also, it doesn't have to. Because I've already forgiven him, because it's him. The same way he has done for me, more times than I'd care to know, I'm sure.

And then, I feel the fire.

Because suddenly – and also excruciatingly slowly – he is no longer strong on his feet.

Weakness thrusts his body – slender, vulnerable, trembling – into my arms. And our clumsiness knocks his jacket back – fluttering rip in the threadbare cloth – and presses his tunic to his side.

Abruptly, obscenely, wetly _red_.

"No," I say, and hold him up. Because my pain and my fire is distant, and his blazes so embarrassingly frighteningly plain across the blank white field of his face.

Because I am king, and ought to be able to command such things as pain. Loss of blood. Betrayal of fragile life and mortal body.

"No, Merlin. _No_. Do you hear me? I forbid it."

Stupid, useless words. _Oh, why did you come between us_?

He fades a bit, and I lower him all the way to the ground, in little more than a controlled fall. My hands tremble as I scramble like a squire to find cloth, extra cloth, surrounded by bodies on a battlefield. There is plenty in one scarlet cloak, abandoned as life abandoned its master - and a garment I would never think to mar, I now curse its stubborn refusal to tear more swiftly.

I cover the blood on my Merlin, front and back, padding his ribs forcibly, binding his life and blood inside him by my will and a knight's symbol of nobility and service. Roughly ignoring moan and whimper because both tell me he's alive and by damn he'll stay that way if I have any say in the matter. I refuse to consider that I don't.

"We can't stay here," I tell him.

He is panting from our exertions, but his eyes are open… they take a moment to sharpen in understanding and agreement.

I tell him, "These hills will be crawling with Saxons by first light. We need to get out of the open til we get a chance to return to our forces. Then we'll get you to Gaius."

I am aware that I'm using our plural personal pronoun. We. Together. Because I am ordering it to be so, commanding that it shall not change.

"Can you get up?" I ask. And then, shamelessly, "For me?"

He smiles, beautiful and awful. "Of course."

We get him to his feet – big clumsy feet in shoddy old boots why does that shame me – and he leans closely on my shoulder on his uninjured side. And he is at once too heavy, and far too light.

The line of fire along my side flares with each step. I can't help but think I deserve it, somehow.

Our steps are slow and unsteady, as we make our way into the unfamiliar darkness beyond the battlefield.

But we are together.

* * *

 _Help me to carry the fire_

 _We will keep it alight together_

 _Help me to carry the fire_

 _It will light our way forever_

* * *

 _(Merlin)_

I feel the fire.

More than before, since Arthur has stopped trying to cover ground. For now.

I lean uncomfortably against the trunk of a fallen tree – because it would be impossible for me to breathe lying prone – while he shuffles about, making camp or hiding our position from renegade Saxons or something.

I close my eyes and feel the fire.

It is not my first injury, nor even the first Arthur is aware of. We have done this before, he and I. My blood on his hands, his strength supporting my weakness.

We have done it the other way round, also, more than once.

I prefer it this way, I decide. I can bear the fire; he can do the walking.

Once I was shot with an arrow. Low on my right side – there isn't even a scar now, magical healing will do that – excruciating and weakening and I feared I would die, hunted by Morgana and her Saxons and their dogs.

I'd felt the sudden heavy crunch of a mace in the hollow of my shoulder – never saw the mounted mercenary coming, only a horrified warning in my king's eyes before I turned. Awareness had lasted a moment longer, as I remember it, along with a sort of surprise at being so helpless, physically and magically. Unconsciousness happened too fast for decisive thought or will to resist.

I'd felt the sudden sharp stab of puncture and toxin liquefying nerves-muscles-flesh, in my back and spreading. Them, I had seen coming. For hours. Physically restrained and magically free, that time, still I had not avoided the wound.

I had also felt the bitter dry heat of poison swallowed. _You're alive! thought you were dead_ … Arthur's daring and Gaius' magic had saved my life, that time.

Twice, Kilgarrah. Once – ironically – Morgana.

Destiny in all cases, perhaps, that I had survived.

But Kilgarrah is not here or able – possibly dying himself. Morgana is dead – of the lightning or the fall – and in any case, would not use healing magic unless there was some benefit to her. Gaius is neither here nor able, either.

Because I can feel the fire.

Not just, a sword is a sword is a sword. I feel the fire, that this one has been dragon-burnished. Also. Like Arthur's.

Distantly I wonder how Morgana had gotten her hands on that bit of lore. Clearly it was meant for Arthur. I watch him move, stiffly and favoring his right side also, and wonder if he feels the dragonfire igniting his veins.

Slowly. Subtly. Charged with untamed magic. Inexorable.

It would be interesting – it might be beautiful – if it wasn't killing me slowly from within. But it's not me that I'm worried about.

"You're hurt," I say.

I've found it's easier to speak if I use short sentences. One breath, before struggling to drag in another without betraying the smoldering pain to my sharp-eyed friend.

Friend. That is a fire I feel as well. I'd like to quench it – soon – but I'm not at all sure it's possible.

"It's just a scratch." Arthur shrugs. "I'll be fine."

"You should –" I pause to burn; the irony is hot as well, the sorcerer's pyre blazing _inside_ me – "take care of it. Clean it, bind it."

Arthur scoffs. "When we rejoin the army, I'll have it seen to, how's that? If you're done resting, we can get moving again."

The thought of moving, even to shift a finger or toe, is as overwhelmingly nauseating as the suggestion of a swallow of water had been a moment ago – however intuitive a solution that might seem for the fire that consumes me internally. Breathing is bad enough, and I'd quit that, if I could.

Arthur won't let me, though.

I remember something else, then, and use Arthur's words against him. "For me?"

He catches my eye. And scowls. And he'd cross his arms if his side wouldn't hurt him to do it. "You know very well how hard it is to get in and out of this armor without help – and you're pretty useless right now."

I half-expect him to continue with a remark like, _you're always useless_. But this time he doesn't.

He only kneels beside me to check the bandages underneath my shirt – I close my eyes and burn a little hotter in the darkness until I hear him say my name. Once is faint interest, twice is instinctive obedience.

I open my eyes. He's blurry, more than a bit.

My voice feels thick. "Please? I would feel better… knowing you're o… okay."

"You're still on about that?" He dabs at my mouth and chin with his sleeve, and I look, but the padded jacket he wears beneath his chainmail is dark red, and I can see nothing on the cuff.

Instead of removing armor, though, he does at least unbuckle his sword-belt, push the mail and his clothing far up his side. The last layer sticks, but he grumbles instead of wincing as he teases it loose, and now I can see clearly.

Blood is smeared on the pale skin over his ribs, but there are no fresh trickles. Not a scratch, or just a cut – a gash, but a shallow one that seems to have closed and begun healing. That will continue… unless he moves around too much, unless he does anything too strenuous or tries to lift something too heavy.

Like, dragging a dying man back behind our army's lines.

It's an enormous relief, to know that he doesn't share this feeling of fire. I know I'm dying, and that's okay, now. Because Mordred is dead, and Morgana, and Arthur is not even seriously injured. I feel like my job is done, for the first time in ten years.

Well… almost. But there's nothing I can do for the return of magic now, except return my own to the earth. The rest will be up to Arthur.

So I have to tell him.

I don't want to tell him.

It's a separate fire, in the center of my chest, this feeling of fear and despair – the expectation of absolute rejection, and then desolate loneliness. And I couldn't say when it started.

I can remember a time when it was amusing, how gullible and oblivious the prince was. Arrogant and prattish and I _had_ to work for him and I hated the work and resented the need, and fibs and half-truths and prevarication rolled easily off my tongue.

Now. Now it is the opposite. Now I look for things to do for my king, to help in any way I can. To encourage and support and amuse sometimes and irritate sometimes, whatever he needs.

And every lie burns.

Sometimes I want to blurt out the truth and sprint to the pyre myself. Just to get it over with. Just to stop hiding, and deceiving my friend.

Who is – saying my name again, I realize.

I don't remember closing my eyes, I think, as I open them.

"Just – thinking," I say, so he doesn't worry. But it doesn't work, because if it did, he would act surprised that thinking is an activity I'm acquainted with.

He sits cross-legged beside me and says quietly, "About what?"

"Want to… say something to you… tell you…"

A look of fear flashes across his face, but when he doesn't leap up and snatch out his sword and no enemies charge from the thick underbrush that surrounds and hides us, I realize it's for me.

"You're not going to say goodbye," he orders.

"No… no." It hasn't even occurred to me. "Arthur, I…"

I've seen Avalon already, that men are supposed to glimpse on the verge of death, more than once. I've seen the veil that separates the spiritual realm from the temporal – torn, and healed.

Almost, I can see the veil between us, now. Everyone has secrets. But _this_ one, and from _him_.

I'm getting ready to tear that veil. And what will come screaming out? And will my willingness to step through, my act of sacrifice proving who I am and how I feel… will it be enough to heal the tear?

 _It is not just his deed we'll never forget. It's his courage… his compassion… his unselfish heart._

 _If I do die, will you call me a hero?_

Or will he call me traitor? I think it's possible I might be eternally damned if Arthur decides to take his feelings of betrayal out on other magic-users, because he can't punish or execute me. If I end up precipitating the opposite of what I was meant to achieve. If Arthur reacts against magic with deeper suspicion, rather than freeing it.

One day, I've said before, when he's ready. But my days are over. This is it. Ready or not.

"I'm a sorcerer."

For a moment, I marvel at the simplicity and serenity of the words and tone. And was it really me that just said that, my voice, after denying that truth for so long?

But. Arthur's expression doesn't change – a mix of worry and amused disbelief. "Merlin…" He shakes his head.

I try again. "I have… magic, Arthur. But I use it for… you."

"You're delirious," he says.

"No."

After a moment, in which I don't babble feverishly, or recant, his brows draw together. The amusement is gone. "Then it's a dreadful joke."

"You saw me," I tell him. "I fought the… Saxons. Morgana. Aithus…" He won't know the name. "The dragon."

"The sorcerer who saved us was an old man," Arthur reminds me gently.

"Aging… spell," I say, and look past him at the sky; it's funny and sad to realize. "I guess I never will… look like that."

"Merlin, you…" He shakes his head again in denial. "You're not. No, you're not."

"Put out your hand," I ask him. "Hold mine up?" I should be ashamed of admitting the weakness, but… it's not important, anymore.

He's still meeting my eyes. That's something, but he doesn't _believe_ , though I see the fear there that he's going to have to believe, in a minute.

"Please?" I add. "Trust me."

One more time.

One last time.

He puts out his hand, gathers mine up, the back of my hand in his palm, and lifts until I can see them both.

It hurts to speak, so I don't. He'll see my eyes and the flash of gold magic… and the tongue of flame dancing in my palm is unmistakable. His hand is rock-steady, and I'm so terribly, incongruously proud of his courage.

But he's still looking at me, not it. There's a plea in his eyes – _take it back, say it isn't so_ – and a confusion of questions.

"Always," I say, to answer a few of them at once, and my mouth seems not to be working properly again. It tastes like I have bitten my tongue, and maybe I have. My lungs feel soggy; it's hard to talk. But I have managed harder things in the past, I'm sure. Can't remember them right now… "Always for you. Happy to… serve… a great king…"

The flame dances, flickers, and he doesn't look at it. The fire rises and roars in my side and I am too slow to flinch when Arthur reaches to my face, his sleeve rough on my mouth and chin.

Then he lays my hand back down on the ground. And turns away.

I can see his bent knee, one bowed shoulder. I can see his ear and the corner of his jaw and his hair in sweaty clumps from his battle exertions, now dry. I can't move my head to see more. And I can't force the pain of speaking – nothing comes importantly or clearly enough to my tongue and lips.

The veil is torn, and all I hear is the deadly silence of anticipation.

 _I'm sorry. I'm not sorry._

He sits unmoving. And I die a little more.

I don't deserve immediate forgiveness, and I don't even want it, like that. I suffer and I burn and it feels like I'm making payment for my deceit. A little more, til we're even? Only… it doesn't feel like I can wait… much longer.

"Arthur?" I say. But I don't think he hears me.

I grit my teeth, knowing it will be agony, and move my hand, just enough to grip his sleeve. I am determined to be brave and noble, to make this as easy for him as I can, but I cannot help the sound of pain that crawls up my throat – it hurts and my eyes water and I clench my teeth and the weight of my hand drags on Arthur's arm.

"What?" he says, almost absently. Lost in thought, I guess. At least he's not furious, shouting and demanding and accusing. At least he hasn't walked away.

I want to say something meaningful and wise and succinct, an explanation, an epiphany that will reconcile everything for him peacefully.

What comes out is a childish whimper. "It hurts…"

He shifts, just enough so I can see his profile, now. So I can see his cheek is shiny-wet with tears. "Yes, Merlin. It does."

I gasp. Because I always share his pain, by my own choice, and this time I am the cause and that is unbearable. And the fire inside devours, without ending, without subsiding.

He turns a bit more, and looks at me as if he's not really seeing me. Or as if he is, for the first time. Seeing not my face or my clothes or my condition, but the spirit that is very nearly free. Ready to seal the veil.

"But you saved my life," he says, as if that confuses him.

"Yes." The _how_ was not my best idea ever, but I'd been terrified past reason to see Mordred approach Arthur's back with drawn weapon and murderous intent. "How could I… not? You're my… friend." _Please don't contradict me, not now, let me hold that word and carry it into the darkness to light my way_. "My king."

"But…" He still doesn't understand. Because his laws would see me dead – _give me a minute_ , I think ironically – and he's never seen magic that doesn't want _him_ dead. Loyalty isn't logical, either way. But there it is.

"I believe in you," I say.

He has to think about that again, for a minute. I'm not sure why he doesn't understand, or how much simpler I can explain it.

Maybe time passes. I am past questioning – or caring, maybe – why there are changes to my perception of this world. All feeling is gone, and all light. I look past him, upward, and see dots of white dancing in my vision. I blink, but they don't disappear, and I see that it is snowing.

Mesmerizing to watch, from this angle. But a bit early in the season for it, I think, and wonder if my magic has anything to do with it.

And though I don't intend to let go of his sleeve – ever again – my fingers are nerveless and my hand flops to the ground and the impact jars me into sudden and unexpected darkness. Though the darkness isn't complete, only soft and gray like twilight. Between.

But it is cold and still and quiet, and I know what that means, and I am more irritated than anything else, as I cannot keep my eyes open.

One more minute, I think. And I would have _known_.

Reaction wasn't decision, and _Arthur_ didn't even know… A flash soars across my vision and consciousness like a shooting star, vast and distant, and I think, _I'm not ready_. After all that. After facing danger and uncertainty all my life… I'm _not_ ready. I don't want to die.

But I can do nothing but wait, for whatever sort of existence or reality comes next.


	3. Chapter 3

**To Carry the Fire** – Part 3

 _(Arthur)_

I cannot feel the fire.

That surprises me, as I sit and see nothing and try to think. I cannot believe the betrayal my mind tells me, just happened.

I cannot believe the loss my mind tells me, will happen soon.

I cannot feel the magic my mind tells me, exists right there in the palm of our hands. Dancing. Not burning.

Impossible. Yet right there, all of it, and I feel nothing.

I think, maybe it's a dream. Because Merlin cannot be a traitor. Cannot be dying. Cannot have magic.

What is true? I wait to wake, and it doesn't happen.

Then I realize, I can feel the cold.

Something draws my attention upward, and I see that it's – snowing. The sky overhead is faintly gray in the late afternoon, the only patch of blue showing far toward the western horizon where a crescent moon rocks.

I watch the sky for a while without really intending to – I know I'm dreaming now, snow is just as improbable as anything else. Snow and the moon. Cool and remote and calm.

Then, something draws me to look at Merlin.

His face is white – mostly, except for that damnably persistent dark trickle from the corner of his mouth that I can do nothing about except try to hide and deny – and serene, as he looks up and watches also.

 _There's something about you, I can't quite put my finger on it… Someone knew I was in trouble and sent a light to guide the way…_

 _On your long journey to become king, you'll need a guardian angel…_

Then, abruptly, inadvertently, everything makes sense.

All the impossible becomes possible, and not for the first time. I feel a bit like I am waking, healed from those wounds I remembered, informed of a victory I cannot remember having a hand in. Accepting that it is my hopes that have come true, instead of my fears.

Because of Merlin. And with magic, peaceful and beautiful and poignant.

Treachery inverted is loyalty.

I can't feel that either, yet, can't understand it any more than I did its converse, just a moment ago, but my mind has accepted it as true.

His smile is small, whimsical and strangely sweet – for an instant I wish that he is looking at me, when it happens – for another instant I realize _why_ he has smiled.

This is it, his last smile his last look his last…

I cannot get his name out – _Merlin_! - fast enough to capture his attention, cannot move –

Before his eyes drop shut. His body shudders, and goes completely, gently slack.

This is it. This is it.

"No. Please, no." I want to grab him and shake him, but I can't so much as touch him, for fear of pain I'll cause, either of us, for fear of what I'll find… and what I won't.

This is impossible – I am so childishly scared – don't leave me, Merlin.

Alone.

The fire has gone out. The candle surrenders to a gust of wind too sudden and harsh.

So long we have been together – through frustration and anger and triumph and peace and teasing and serving and irritation and danger and learning and satisfaction and rest and reward – I cannot believe this either.

Cannot allow it. Cannot command it to be otherwise, but that doesn't stop me from pleading, as I break. A little.

This cannot be the end, of whatever this was and whatever we had that I never understood, and barely glimpsed.

 _Please._

This, _this_ is the betrayal. Not the magic – a whole kin of people condemned blindly to the pyre and that is _not_ the golden torch I wish to light my way my reign my legacy my kingdom – but _this loss_.

"Please, don't go," I whisper.

Why not. Because I can't lose him, after all I've lost, after everything we've been through? Because he's a servant and never should have been on the battlefield, a sorcerer and never should have used his body to shield me? Because he's too damn young to die, too pure and generous, regardless of other considerations?

No, because it's not about me. And it's not about him. It's about what we _all_ need.

So I whisper, "Please don't take him."

Who do I expect to hear me, to take notice? On what basis do I beg? The authority of a king and the representation of an entire kingdom? A flawed and humbled and desperate friend?

I remember backing into the water of the Cauldron, drenched and helpless, pleading, persuading… waiting. Have mercy. Give back.

 _Come take my hand. Come with me and change destiny, thwart evil. Remain mine. Oh, please won't you…_

And…

I feel as though _something_ lingers.

Like a single curl of smoke dancing in the air when the light of its cousin is extinguished to invisibility.

But for a moment, a mote of deep orange remains at the tip of the wick.

Gone, but still…

Maybe his spirit? maybe his magic?

I shiver at the thought, and I can't tell if it's the dread I was taught or the hope I've just discovered. Maybe it's only because it's still snowing and my fingers are chilled and my side is numb and my blood is cold…

"Merlin," I say, quiet and urgent and swift, making my own confession.

Something I need to do, whether he hears or not. Whether it changes anything for him or not… it might change me. For the better. As he often had…

"I thought I knew. I was sure I was right. I had a vision of the king I wanted to be and the kingdom I wanted to rule." A glorious blazing golden ideal of peace and prosperity… light in the darkness…

 _All I know is that, for your many faults, you are honest and brave and truehearted, and one day you will be the greatest king this land has ever known… We end this war, against tyranny, greed, and spite – we fight for our lives, the future – Camelot, Albion, the united kingdoms._

 _For the love of Camelot._

"I was wrong. Merlin, I was wrong. Magic. I don't know – I don't _understand_ … I need you, though. Someone I trust, to show me, to explain – for fairness and for freedom. All peoples, all laws. Merlin, you have to help me build this kingdom. We're not done yet, and it won't be the same without you."

I can't help believing he's listening. Like someone – or something - is listening.

One spark… must be breathed gently to life and flame, nurtured, fostered, coddled, coaxed… I don't know what to do. Touch him or not?

I don't know what else to say.

The moon rocks over us, a sliver of light, and it suddenly feels important to know whether it's waxing or waning, coming or going. Whether it's going to be full, or dark.

I don't remember. For the life of me, I can't remember.

But in that moment, Merlin's chest expands with a sudden gasp, his sagging body fairly lifting from the tree trunk.

I lean forward. I'm hovering, burning with hope. "Merlin!"

His eyes open, gaze aimlessly around the clearing – link with mine, and a star shines faintly in each dark depth.

Air sputters past the blood in his mouth and throat – he coughs – and I lurch to catch him as he raises himself. I support much of his weight as he curls to the side to cough until he gags – and breathes – and spits the last of the blood from his mouth.

Then, he doesn't move. Which worries me, but with both hands holding him, his back and his chest and shoulder, I can feel him breathing. Roughly, maybe, and shuddering, but _alive_.

Miracle?

Magic.

"Merlin?" I say.

He doesn't answer me right away, but I know he's heard me, he holds himself so still. And after a moment whispers, "Arthur."

"Yeah."

Another moment. He doesn't try to straighten up or look at me, and I don't try to make him. "What happened? You're dead too?"

"No," I say. "You're not."

At that, he falls back into his former position against the log, and the shock is stark on his face in the wan light. "I'm… oh."

He moves his hands to feel his side, awkwardly to touch his back, lifting his shirt, pushing at the blood- _soaked_ bandage that makes every nerve in my chest cringe to see again, fumbling to remove it. He searches his flesh and rib-bones, smearing his blood on his fingers, but I remember what I saw, what I covered, and I see before he does, that his wound is closed.

"How… how…" he stammers.

I test how a bit of lightheartedness might feel, to either of us. In place of an explanation that either doesn't exist, or is perpetually incomprehensible. "Magic."

He remembers. And I can't blame him when suddenly it is too much, and tears spill down his face. I suppose he has no energy for sobbing, but the depth of his emotion is plain in the way he clutches at me, chainmail or no.

"Then you forgive me," he says, hope and disbelief. "Then you forgive me."

"I think so," I say. Because I wonder how much horror and guilt and relief might be influencing me right now. I wonder how many more secrets lie behind the one simple yet vast confession, and how we will manage the navigation of that territory. "You're going to have to help me with that, though, too."

A couple of metaphorical torches held high, maybe, so I can finally _see_.

"Too?" he says.

And I guess he hadn't actually heard what I'd said about learning and fairness and ruling. I don't know whether to be glad for that, or sorry.

"It can wait, Merlin. Right now, we both need to rest, I think. And get back to safety as soon as possible."

I check myself, at the sound of the words. Safety. And hasn't he basically returned from the dead, self-healed? There's probably no safer place for me, than with him.

But… where is safe for him?

He nods without hearing any deeper meaning, or questioning the idea, as he has so often in the past. Following my lead, even if I am ignorant of the truth. The depth of his trust in me, when he possesses that great secret illegal reason to the contrary, is staggering.

How can it be so simple, and yet so vast, at the same time?

I dare to move right next to him, remembering one night near Ismere, when we'd slept so, sharing warmth. He is shivering, and I tell myself it's just the chill of the night air, it'll pass. His fingers are cold, and shy, as he tucks them between us. I think of the blood on them, and I'm sure now that I will remember that – this – to my own dying day.

At least it has stopped snowing. And it's too warm for the light dusting of flakes that surrounds us to last for long.

* * *

 _We can never go home… We no longer have one_

 _I'll help you carry the load… I'll carry you in my arms_

 _The kiss of the snow… The crescent moon above us_

 _Our blood is cold… And we're alone_

 _But I'm alone with you_

 _If I say shut your eyes… If I say look away_

 _Bury your face in my shoulder… Think of a birthday_

 _The things you put in your head… They will stay here forever_

 _Our blood is cold… And we're alone_

 _But I'm alone with you_

 _If I say shut your eyes_

 _If I say shut your eyes_

 _Bury me in surprise_

 _If I say shut your eyes_

* * *

 _(Merlin)_

Arthur's forgiveness – however tentative or conditional it might prove – is a warm glow in my chest.

The fire in my side has gone out, leaving me cold and exhausted. Strangely disappointed – I haven't crossed to my lost family and friends, the ones I loved that were waiting for me; I haven't died for my king – but hopeful, too. No screaming specters stream from our torn veil. All is silence, and peace.

Although, for the first time in a long time, I feel a bit lost. And not only because we lie on some dark nameless hillside near unfamiliar Camlann.

Mordred is dead. The battle of Camlann won. Does that mean Arthur won't need me to keep him alive anymore? Threat thwarted, death averted, danger past?

And Arthur knows of my magic. Has forgiven… which means things have to change, don't they? His attitude… his judgment… his laws…

Oh, but he will have questions. That thought sparks an old fear in my heart – the fact of my possession of magic is one thing, the specifics of what I've done with it… completely different. Will he still forgive, when he finds out truths like his father's death, or his uncle's. The release of the dragon or the complications of Morgana's fall from grace.

I can feel him breathing next to me, in pre-dawn dark. I feel like the coward he'd called me, back in his chamber in Camelot.

Maybe I should go. Just, leave. Haven't I done enough?

Camelot has been my home for a while, but… like Ealdor, I can't stay. I pretended to fit in for a while, but my existence is illegal, and now that the king knows…

I'm not afraid of him, I never have been. Rather – and always – _for_ him.

The moment I shift to leave his side, to rise and leave his side, his gloved hand claps silently over my mouth, with the swift simple instinctive movement of one arm. This sparks a memory of our trip to Ismere so clear I freeze and listen for enemies.

And the forest seems very busy, all around us, for this time of night.

I feel his breath on the side of my face as he speaks, nearly soundlessly. "We're surrounded. Saxons."

I nod, knowing he will feel my understanding.

He moves so stealthily I never hear him, and only realize it by the contact between us. Up on his knees, he bends over me, preparing to lift me, whispering again. "They're searching. They'll find us. We might as well go down fighting. Are you with me?"

I lift my own hand to find his shoulder, wrap my fingers around his neck. Turn slightly so my mouth is right next his ear.

"Close your eyes." I pull his head gently into my shoulder; he resists, I persist. "Don't watch – think of something else, something nice." I feel the tension in his muscles, his unwillingness to follow, and beg him, "Please trust me."

I don't want him to see this. I'm not ready for him to watch _me_ – and not just old Dragoon – kill.

With my other hand, I toss up a fireball. Illuminating briefly but surely, reflecting pairs of eyes all around us – alarm and rush. No red cloaks. Not a chance that we heard our own men, searching for their king.

I brace myself against Arthur and with the effort of a soundless shout, I explode the fireball. A shimmering falling dome of flame that hits the ground and spreads, surrounding us, protecting us.

Arthur jerks at the roar and crackle, the scream and shout, but I cling to him, begging still in my whisper. "Don't watch."

 _Please don't watch what I'm willing to do for you. Not if you look at me differently, after._

My fire goes out.

It's _wrong_ , I _feel_ that it's wrong. I know _why_ it's wrong, but we both need to be on our feet for what's coming next, so I allow Arthur to retreat in a rush, keeping hold of me to pull me upright, too.

Almost, I fall again. For a moment I can't see and it isn't the effect of brilliant fire against dark night, suddenly extinguished. I think, for an oddly disconnected moment, that at least Arthur has kept his night-vision.

He keeps hold of me, as I lurch sideways and lift my arms, and stay on my feet. I've made a terrible mistake, assuming safety too early, and I can barely breathe for the shock.

And she steps into view. A shadow among shadows in the gray pre-dawn, but her face gleams pale in the darkness.

"Well," Morgana says venomously. "What have we here."

I want to tell Arthur again, _don't look, don't watch_ , but it's all I can do to keep him behind me, and mostly because he's probably aware that he's the only thing keeping me upright. He probably wants to face her himself – even if he knows he can't fight her magic – he probably doesn't want to drop me.

"Emrys," she goes on, prowling closer. "You're covered in blood. I do hope it's your own."

"Stop this, Morgana," Arthur speaks from behind me. "You can't possibly hope to win, any longer."

"Oh, but I already have," she spits out. "Look at him. Weak. Spineless. As good as dead. As much as I would love to assume that you'd run him through yourself, dear brother, upon learning of his treachery –" she laughs bitterly – "magic, in the heart of Camelot, Uther must be rolling in his grave. As deliciously ironic as that would be, for you to kill your protector… That was Mordred's blade that did that, wasn't it."

"Leave now and you won't be followed."

There is desperation in Arthur's tone, and I see from her expression that she misunderstands it. She thinks he's afraid to die; he doesn't want to have to kill her. Even now. I let my right hand drop, swing back slightly, grasp the hilt of the blade he holds bared in his hand.

"Stay out of Camelot, and you won't be tracked," he concludes his offer of mercy.

She lifts her chin to give a mocking laugh. "You can't threaten me," she says. "The only reason you ever succeeded against me is dead on his feet. How about it, Emrys? Is your magic as weak as your flesh and mind? Why don't you do us all a favor and _die_ , so Arthur's death can be swift and painless? Or give me your best shot?"

She knows I can't. She can see I'm in no condition to battle her magically.

She's close. Almost close enough, but I'm not bearing much of my weight myself. We can't lunge to attack. I feel Arthur's hand on my chest; he's not trying to move out from behind me, now, but it's not because he's hiding. He's waiting to strike, and yet -

"No closer," he warns – there's a dagger in her hand – "on your _life_ , Morgana…"

She smirks, and speaks a spell.

Just prior to a physical attack I know she'll find more appealing. For all her boasting of magic, she wants to kill Arthur with sharp steel, his blood on her own hands. But the days are long past when she could tease Arthur about beating him with swordplay. So she speaks to _paralyze_ him with magic.

I absorb it. Shielding my prince, my king, as I always try to – and always will.

He can't help but see the magic reflecting in her eyes, probably anticipates its effect without any real recognition. It's possible that he feels it hit me.

My hand is still with his on the hilt. I feel his grip tighten and firm – and lift –

Arthur's hand on my chest keeps me from toppling forward and going down, with Morgana.

Blood-red lips open in a gasp of shock and pain and failure. Her green eyes lock with mine, one last time. _But… but I'm a… priestess…_

 _This was forged in a dragon's breath, also._

"Goodbye, Morgana," I whisper.

She slides to the ground, released from the killing blade. Lifeless corpse, lovely corrupted vessel, emptying. I know the exact moment of her death, when the spell breaks, when her magic dark and tainted, floods back into the healing, understanding earth.

I gasp and stagger and Arthur drops his sword to use both hands to spin me about – nearly sending me earthward again.

"Merlin?"

"I'm all right," I tell him. "I'm all right." A little white lie, but it will be true fairly soon.

"What was that? She used magic on you?"

 _On us_. I say, "It's all right now, the spell is broken. I'm just…"

He takes his hands away slowly, watching me closely. "You did lose rather a lot of blood, after all."

Which explains dizziness and weakness and foggy vision, I suppose.

He adds, "We can't stay here," exactly as he had on the battlefield. "That fire is going to draw far too much attention."

I say, "You go on, then, sire. I'll be fine."

He gives me a very strange look, and I am too tired to try to read it. "How on earth do you think you'll manage to get back to Camelot on your own? And what in hell makes you think I'm just going to… leave you?"

"I can't go to Camelot with you," I remind him. And I feel like I either need to start walking or lie down, because otherwise I'm going to faint like the girl he's always calling me.

He straightens, and his voice is as stiff as his shoulders. "Why not."

"I'm a sorcerer." _Well done stating the obvious,_ Mer _lin_. "And you're the king."

"You can't think I would –" He looks angry. He sounds hurt.

"You'd have to," I say.

"Idiot." He takes my wrist and twists around so that my arm is over his shoulder and his wraps around my ribs. "Come on. And let me explain something to you about being king that you must have missed over the years. _Extremely_ simply put, I make the laws. I break them, I bend them, I apply them, I order them enforced… or not. Who do you expect is going to _arrest_ you, even, if I haven't given that order?"

I try to laugh, but it's not easy, stretched half across him and bumping my ribs on chainmail at every step.

"I have got rather a lot to do on that subject," he continues. The air is lightening, I might see his face now, except for the fact that he's watching ahead of us as we descend the hillside at an angle, beyond the burned ring and bodies of our enemies. "Which means, you have twice as much to do."

After a battle, I remember. Not twice as much work as normal, but more.

"Laundry," I say with a groan, "armor, and stables…"

"No," he says, and spares me a glance and half a grin. "If I'm to reconsider the laws on magic, I'm going to need your advice…"

It's a good thing he's got a strong hold on me, or I might collapse. I am tongue-tied with shock, and that doesn't happen to me often.

Perhaps a veil of secrets still ripples between us, but it seems to me more like the curtain I draw from his window in the morning to let the light in, than the dark death-shroud of fate's separation.

"That is, if you have any," he adds sarcastically.

"Oh, yes," I manage. "I'm full of good ideas you should listen to – always have been, actually –"

"Shut up, Merlin." He snorts and shakes his head, and just then, the first yellow edge of dawn is visible. "Let's go home."

 **A/N: I know the idea isn't exactly original, Merlin wounded at Camlann instead of Arthur, but the idea paired with the song was too much to resist! Hope you all enjoyed! I should have another short-story (kind of) begun by next week, if all goes to plan…**

 **PS, Thanks again for those who spotted that quote of Uther's for me, did you recognize it? *winks***


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